The Woman From Paris (44 page)

“She never wanted them,” David interjected. “She gave them to me to keep.”

“Thank God she’s come clean and those valuable jewels will remain in the family,” Roberta exclaimed with a satisfied sniff.

“What on earth possessed Dad to be so rash?” Joshua questioned.

“I suspected George was having an affair,” said Antoinette, to everyone’s surprise. “I sensed it intuitively, as women do. But I never expected the woman to be Phaedra.” She began to cry again. “I feel so let down.”

“I think you need a stiff drink,” Rosamunde suggested.

“No, I want to go to bed. I’m suddenly very tired.” Tom helped her up. “What will Margaret say? She’ll be devastated. She loved Phaedra, too.”

“I’ll tell her,” David suggested.

“No, I’ll tell her tomorrow. I think it’s better coming from me,” Antoinette insisted.

Rosamunde felt a strong sense of déjà vu as she tucked her sister into bed. “You were doing so well,” she said regretfully.

“I’m back to square one. Only worse than I was before.” Antoinette wiped her eyes on the pillow. “Do you think George loved me at all?”

“Oh, Antoinette, of course he did. You know what men are like. Phaedra was a short fling. Nothing more.”

“But he was saying how much he loved Phaedra. I think she was everything that I was not. Perhaps if I’d skied and been braver . . .”

“It’s got nothing to do with that. You were a good wife to George, and he loved you dearly.”

“I feel worthless, Rosamunde.”

“I know you do. But married men have had affairs since time immemorial. Love and sex are two very different things. He had a crush, as simple as that, the same as he had a crush on lots of things. Do you remember how he’d become infatuated with a new project then toss it to Julius to take on? He always lost interest after a while, didn’t he? Well, Phaedra was just like that, a crush. Had he lived, he would probably have binned her already and changed back his will.” Rosamunde sighed heavily. “I must say, I’m disappointed in George. I never expected this of him.”

“I feel like going to his grave and taking away all the flowers I’ve ever put there. I
hate
him.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do. I hate him, Rosamunde. I hate him, and I don’t ever want to see Phaedra again.”

28

T
he following morning Antoinette awoke at dawn. Her initial sense of happiness at the sight of the pale light breaking through the gaps in the curtains and the promise of another day in the garden was robbed by the sudden onslaught of memories from the night before. She lay in bed and stiffened as they surfaced one by one like corpses from beneath a green and vibrant pasture, stealing all that was familiar and tender, until she had to clamber out of bed and retch into the lavatory next door.

Had her marriage been a sham? Had George lied when he said he loved her? Had she been a naive idiot for trusting him? She had never before felt so wretched. Last night George had died for her all over again, yet one question lingered that would never be answered: Had she ever truly known him?

She showered and dressed. It was six a.m.; the rest of the family were fast asleep. Only David would be up because she knew that he would be as broken as she was. The mother in her wanted to rush to him and wrap her arms around him, to take the burden of loss away, but the woman in her knew that she hadn’t the strength to carry anyone else’s pain but her own, and even that was too great for her fragile shoulders.

Her heart yearned for solace. She paced the room, finding the memories of George too searing now. She’d throw all his old things into a bag and burn them. Reduce them and all their secrets to ash. They were stained with the dye of his duplicitous life, and she wanted nothing more to do with them. No wonder Phaedra had known about the ruins in Jordan—she had been there.
She
was the shadow in the photograph. George was posing for
her
. She remembered
sitting on the floor of his bedroom with Phaedra and sharing her innermost thoughts, believing she had a daughter she could trust. At those memories her whole body began to shake with fury and hurt. She had to get out. She had to be anywhere but here.

It was cool in the garden. The grass was wet with dew; the sky a clear, watery blue. She walked swiftly across it in the direction of the folly, yearning for the quiet solitude of that little house on the hill.

As she left the garden and mansion behind she began to feel a little better. The wind swept through her hair and dried her damp cheeks. She could breathe again and took in great gulps of air. The patchwork of woolly fields and frothy hedgerows stretched out into the valley below her. From where she now walked, Fairfield looked small and insignificant.

At last she reached the folly. The sight of the warm yellow stone and the pots of topiary raised her spirits, and she reached for the door with a sense of relief. She opened it and stepped inside. To her surprise, Margaret was already in there, seated in the armchair, a blanket arranged over her knees, Basil lying bored across her lap.

The old woman looked up in surprise. “Oh, Antoinette, it’s you. I didn’t expect anyone to come up at this time of the morning.”

“What are you doing?” Antoinette asked, disappointed that she was not alone.

“I could ask
you
the same question.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Antoinette replied.

“Me, neither. I’ve been up for hours,” Margaret complained.

“Are you all right?”

“I thought it was time I forgave Arthur. I can’t be a good Christian if I am unable to do that. But it’s proving much harder than I thought. I imagined here would be a good place to start. I must say, Antoinette, you’ve done a splendid job. It’s very comfortable.”

“Thank you.” Antoinette sank onto the sofa. “I’ve got some bad news for you, I’m afraid.”

“Oh no, not someone else to forgive, I hope.”

“I’m afraid so.”

Margaret sighed. “Oh dear. Well, I suppose I could do a job lot.
Who is it this time?” Antoinette hesitated, not wanting to upset her mother-in-law. “Well, don’t dither! Tell me while I’m in good heart.”

“It’s Phaedra.”

Margaret blanched. “Is she all right?”

“She’s not George’s daughter.”

“She’s not?”

“I’m afraid she’s not a Frampton.”

“Not a Frampton! Then who the devil is she?”

Antoinette lowered her eyes. It was almost too painful to verbalize the truth. She dropped her head into her hand. “George’s mistress.”

Margaret’s face went from pale gray to bright red, and her mouth thinned into a furious line. She inhaled through dilated nostrils like a dragon. “It’s not true!” she gasped.

“I’m afraid it is. She confessed to us last night.”

“How?”

“Julius Beecher sent a DVD of George’s last days skiing before the avalanche. It contained footage of him talking to Phaedra on his mobile telephone.”

“What was he saying?”

Antoinette’s eyes filled with tears. “That he loved her.”

“Good Lord. Are you sure he wasn’t talking to you, dear?”

“Absolutely sure. He was asking forgiveness.”

“Whatever for?”

“For not telling Phaedra that he was married. You see, she pretended to be his daughter after he died because he included her in his will. She said it was the only way to protect me from finding out that he’d been unfaithful.”

“How devious! I suppose she’s run off with the Frampton Sapphires?”

“No, she gave them to David. She said she didn’t want them.”

“Guilty conscience,” said Margaret darkly.

“Yes, probably.”

Margaret narrowed her eyes. “So Julius lied about the DNA test?”

“Yes.”

“I never liked Julius Beecher. Not one little bit. He’s a horrible
worm of a man. I was right not to trust him. Wasn’t I the one who needed convincing at the very beginning? I should have followed my instincts, but the girl was very charming.” She shook her head. “A convincing liar. I must say, I’m very disappointed.”

“Me, too,” said Antoinette. “I’m shocked and saddened.”

Margaret’s eyes widened as she suddenly seized upon vital evidence to incriminate Phaedra further. “You know she tried to steal my clock.”

“Your clock?”

“Yes, the one on the mantelpiece in the yellow room. Jenny saw that it was missing and when she searched for it, she found it wrapped in clothes, hidden in Phaedra’s suitcase at the back of the cupboard. At the time I thought she must have been bothered by the loud ticking, but now I realize she must have intended to steal it. What a snake in the grass!”

They sat in silence for a while, digesting the terrible facts. The trees rustled in the wind outside, and sunshine tumbled in through the glass Rosamunde had cleaned so thoroughly, yet neither felt uplifted. “Why do you need to forgive Arthur?” Antoinette asked at last. “What did
he
do?”

“And I poured my heart out to Phaedra,” Margaret continued, enraged. “I trusted her.” She wrung her hands. “I don’t know who is worse—George or Arthur. Or maybe they’re the same. Like father, like son.” She laughed bitterly, but there was no joy in her eyes, which remained hooded with sorrow. “Arthur had an affair when George was a little boy. I found out, and he came racing back.” She looked at Antoinette steadily. “Men always return to their wives, my dear.”

Antoinette was astonished. “Not you as well!”

“I’m afraid we’re in the same boat.”

“Did Arthur love this other woman?”

“I suppose in his way he did. Men’s hearts aren’t like women’s.”

“Rosamunde says it’s very common for married men to have affairs. Is that true?”

“No, I don’t think that’s true. I suspect most are faithful all their lives. Perhaps all
Frampton
men have affairs. However, I do believe
that men have different needs from women. I realize now that there are many ways to love. Arthur loved me
and
his mistress, just as George probably loved both you
and
Phaedra, in different ways. But I also feel sure he’d have come scuttling back to you had you found out about it, just like Arthur did. Goodness knows, he might have built
you
a folly like this one.” Margaret watched a fat tear roll down Antoinette’s cheek. Instead of finding her tears irritating, she was moved by them. “My dear girl, you have a jolly good cry; you’ll feel so much better. Let it all out.” She lowered her eyes ponderously. “That’s what Phaedra said, and she was right. I let it all out and felt a great deal better. Still, I’m just as hard-hearted about Arthur as you must be about George. Who would have thought we’d have
that
in common?” Antoinette sniveled, and Margaret smiled kindly. “You know, the sensible side of me would advise you to work towards forgiveness. Even if you never quite get there, try to keep your eye on it and make it your goal, because I have spent decades feeling resentful, and you don’t want to end up an old sourpuss like me, do you?”

“You’re not a sourpuss, Margaret. You’re a very kind person,” Antoinette replied, wiping her eyes with a white handkerchief.

Margaret’s eyes glistened. “That’s very nice of you to say. I’ve been called many things, but ‘kind’ has never been one of them.”

“Shall I light a fire?” Antoinette suggested, getting up.

“Good idea. It’s jolly chilly in here.”

“Well, it’s very early. I don’t suppose anyone is awake yet.”

Margaret grew serious. “How is David?”

Antoinette turned to her, log in hand. “You
know
, I suppose?”

“I wondered.”

“I think he’s brokenhearted.” Antoinette threw the log into the grate.

“He’ll mend,” said Margaret, but neither of them believed it.

“We
all
will,” Antoinette agreed. She placed a few more logs in the fireplace and lit it with a lighter. It soon roared boisterously.

“I don’t suppose you have coffee up here, do you?” Margaret asked, running her eyes over the immaculate room.

“I’m afraid not,” Antoinette replied.

“Then we’ll put in an order.” The Dowager Lady Frampton grinned and pulled out her mobile telephone.

Antoinette was amazed. “I forgot you had one of those.”

“Tom got it for me, in case I fell and couldn’t get up. Really, he thinks I’m an old cripple.”

“He’s very thoughtful.”

“I shall call the house and get Harris to bring us some breakfast. I don’t know about you, but all this emotion has made me hungry.”

“Me, too.” Antoinette smiled at Margaret, and the old lady smiled back.

“Let’s see if he can do it without letting the rest of the family know. I’m rather enjoying being up here with you, Antoinette. Just the two of us.” She dialed the number. A moment later Harris answered. “Ah Harris, I wonder whether you might do Lady Frampton and me a small favor . . .”

*   *   *

David was inconsolable. He hadn’t slept all night. Everything reminded him of Phaedra, from Boris screeching in the tree outside his window to the Aga that brought back memories of pancakes and cozy suppers at the kitchen table. He replayed conversations over and over in his head and now understood the deeper significance of her words:
I’m not a Frampton, David . . . I don’t feel comfortable accepting hospitality from your mother . . . I’m not sure I can live without George . . . I’ve been desperately, deliriously, and overwhelmingly in love . . . I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know . . . Thank you for your forgiveness . . . Oh, David, I lied . . .
Her voice was carried from the past on waves of memory, a sentence at a time, and he dissected each one and made sense of it from the vantage point of what he now knew.

He felt a fool for not having worked it out. She never declared that she was a Frampton, except when she originally told the lie in the library with Julius Beecher. She felt guilty about accepting the Frampton Sapphires, insisting that they stay within the family. She never called George “Dad” and always referred to him as “your father,” and the more he thought about it, the more he realized that
her mourning for his death was more like the grief of a lover than the sorrow of a child. It was all so clear in retrospect. How he had prayed for the DNA test to disappear—and now it had, she had been propelled even further away than before.